The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley

by Jeremy Massey

  In contrast to Vincent Cullen’s dark mahogany study, Frank’s office was oak paneled and well lit, with paintings of monasteries hanging on the walls along with framed black-and-white photographs of state funerals of prime ministers and presidents the firm had handled over the years. Frank was fond of smoking cigarillos while up there, often spending the day working under the slow-moving layers of smoke they lent the room. The baroque music he had playing in the background—Bach—put the finishing touch to the atmosphere he found best for letter writing, which was what he was in the middle of when I knocked on his door.

  “Come in,” said Frank.

  I leaned my head in.

  “Frank, just to tell you, I’ve had a look at the Hayes remains from Manchester, and it’s a closed coffin.”

  He looked up from his letter for the first time.

  “There’s nothing Eamonn can do, no?”

  “No,” I said. “Tissue gas has set in. It’s definitely a closed case.”

  “Okay, get on to the family and advise them accordingly.”

  “Will do,” I said, and left him in the smoke.

  FOURTEEN

  11:45 a.m.

  Christy and I stood outside the Hayeses’ pebbledash house with its hodgepodge of round and square windows, waiting to be let in. Christy looked like he had the weight of Dublin’s troubles on his shoulders. It was going to be a big funeral, and they’d expressed how much they wanted an open coffin, and Christy had wanted to make all their wishes come true.

  “What has you so relaxed?” he said accusingly.

  “It’s a closed coffin,” I assured him.

  “This mightn’t wash at all,” he said to the ground.

  The door was opened by old Mr. Hayes, a bull of a man in his early seventies.

  “Ah, Christy,” he said warmly. “Come in.”

  We followed him inside and were led straight into the living room where the whole family was gathered to remember Dermot, twelve of them in all, every one of them an adult. Our visit was unannounced and they were wondering what we were doing there.

  “Sit down, lads,” said old Mr. Hayes. Christy sat down on the arm of the couch while I stayed back at the wall. It was Christy’s funeral, so it was up to him to sell it. Often there were times when a family would be advised to have a closed coffin for genuine reasons, and they nearly always took the advice. But if a family insisted on an open coffin, it was their call at the end of the day, and who were we to stand in their way? We were just there to advise them, only today we had to go beyond advising them: We had to convince them.

  “Will you have a cup of tea?” said old Mr. Hayes.

  “No, no,” said Christy. “Just a quick word and we’ll be on our way.”

  “There’s no problem, is there?” said the old man.

  “Well, I wouldn’t . . . no, there’s no problem, but we’ve just collected your son’s remains from the airport, and . . . well, we’ve had a look at the body and it’s not really suitable for viewing . . .”

  “What are you saying, son?” said old Mr. Hayes.

  “Well, we’re here to recommend having a closed coffin. It’s our opinion that you’d be better off remembering your son as he was. It would be extremely distressing to do otherwise,” Christy said plainly.

  The change in the room was immediate and severe. Some of them moved around on their feet like they’d been hit with news of another death. Others just looked at Christy with resentment. As if it was something he’d done.

  “I’ve come home from Brussels for this,” said one of the sons, an executive type who’d done well for himself. “It’s Dermot, Dad, he’s dead, and we’re expecting him to look dead. The coffin stays open.”

  The mother started whimpering in her chair.

  “Thomas,” she said to her husband, “I have to see him.” The old man put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “What’s the problem exactly, Christy?” he said.

  “To be perfectly frank with you, tissue gas is the problem,” said Christy. “Rapid deterioration and swelling of the body and severe discoloration of the skin . . .”

  “I don’t care what he looks like,” said a determined sister. “I’m saying goodbye to him, Dad.”

  Then they all started. Christy just sat there with his head getting shinier while the noise in the room got louder and more aggrieved. He snuck a glance at me that said it all: We’re fucked.

  In any arrangement situation, you learn pretty quickly who you’re talking to. Very often you find yourself in a roomful of family members, all of them adults, and nine times out of ten, there’s just one person making the decisions. Sometimes it takes a few minutes to figure out who it is, other times it’s clear immediately. In the Hayes house there was only one boss, and with everyone directing their pleas in his direction, there was no figuring out to be done. I leaned in close to old Mr. Hayes and whispered in his ear.

  “Mr. Hayes, may I have a word with you outside?”

  “Certainly, son,” said the old man. I nodded to Christy briefly before he and I walked out of the room ahead of old Mr. Hayes, leaving them all silenced behind us.

  It was a small house, and I needed privacy with the old man. Without any prompting, he led us out of the little hallway into the kitchen before closing the door behind us. This was delicate ground and, to an extent, sacred. I had to be careful with what I said, as whatever picture he bought into would stay with him for the rest of his days. Tread softly, I told myself.

  “I’m the embalmer,” I said. “Now, it’s your call, let me say that before I tell you anything, but before you make a decision, I think you need to be fully abreast of the situation. I’ve worked with Gallagher’s all my life. I’ve buried my father and my wife, so believe me, I know the territory well, not to mention how important this is to you. But I also know what viewing a remains in Dermot’s state can do to a family. Christy mentioned that tissue gas has set in. It has and it’s at an advanced stage. When that happens, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. There’s no process to arrest it, embalming can do nothing. To give you an example of how drastic the change in appearance is, just a few years ago I buried the brother of a retired army captain from Inchicore. Tissue gas had set into his brother’s remains and it was a nasty case, so bad that the body had blown up like a balloon and the skin had turned a putrid green. The face had split open and gangrenous flesh had been exposed. I implored the captain to have a closed coffin, but he insisted on having it open, convinced he knew better. After seeing the state of his brother’s remains, he demanded that the coffin be closed at once and afterwards developed a twitch under his right eye.”

  Old Mr. Hayes winced while he listened.

  “Now, I simply can’t dissuade you enough, but if you insist on coming down yourself to decide, then so be it. But please understand that the dignity of the dead stops me from describing the state of Dermot’s remains to you. I can only appeal to your higher sense to treasure your memories of him as they are. It’s your decision, Mr. Hayes.”

  The old man held his emotion while he reluctantly shook his head, gripping my arm with gratitude.

  “I don’t know how you do your job, son. Fair play to you.” He wiped his face briefly and then walked back inside to his family. Christy and I waited out in the hallway with our ears pricked up.

  “There’ll be no further discussion,” declared the old man. “The coffin is staying shut.”

  FIFTEEN

  12:20 p.m.

  With all of the problems I had on my mind, it was a blessing to have been able to put the Hayes predicament into check and refreshing not to have been morally compromised by the circumstances. To choose between the Hayeses having their already upside-down world turned inside out and being able to bury their son and grieve normally was no choice at all. We’d prevented a disaster, enabled the proper path of grief, and saved a man�
�s livelihood in the bargain. But Dermot Hayes’s coffin wasn’t in the ground yet.

  I had promised to get over to Brigid Wright to pick up her parents’ clothes, but the Cullens and Hayeses had kept me from her. And now I’d Kershaw to assuage before I could do anything.

  I opened the Hayes sheet in the comfort of the middle office and dialed Kershaw’s number. He answered it himself after one ring.

  “Hello, Kershaw’s?” He was a little less frantic but no less relaxed, and still drunk.

  “Derek, it’s Paddy Buckley here.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re clear, as long as you don’t mind sending out that other crowd the wrong ashes.”

  “. . . What?”

  “I’ve convinced the Hayes family to have a closed-coffin funeral. Now, as it stands here, Christy Boylan and I are the only ones who know about it, is it still yourself and your son who know about it at your end?”

  “Yes, yes, it is, oh, my God . . . how did you . . . thank you . . . thank you . . .” Kershaw was overwhelmed with relief.

  The door opened and in popped Christy, pointing out front urgently.

  “Vincent Cullen’s standing out there with two of his men.”

  “Listen, Derek, I’ve another family here, I’ve got to go. Remember, not a word to anyone. Good luck.”

  I put the phone down and exhaled. I’d planned on getting up to Brigid Wright before dealing with Cullen, but I could scratch that now. She’d have to wait.

  I checked myself for the fear. The experience with the Hayeses had given me some of my confidence back, and getting the all clear on Lucy Wright’s postmortem had also given me a boost. Even still, I’d be better equipped to deal with Cullen if I could get out of my skin again. But I’d no time to try that. I had to meet him in the flesh.

  Vincent Cullen stood in front of the main desk, wearing an overcoat like his brother’s, while Sean Scully and Richie flanked him.

  “Mr. Cullen,” I said as I approached them, noticing that the menace I’d seen earlier on was largely absent now, replaced by an unexpected warmth that seemed to be directed at me.

  “Nobody calls me Mr. Cullen, Paddy. It’s Vincent.”

  “Vincent,” I said, never happier to be on first-name terms with anyone. “Come and I’ll show you the coffins.”

  Leaving his men behind, Vincent followed me out past the back office into the selection room where the range of coffins and caskets were mounted and on display. He walked up and down each line of coffins, considering each one as if he were a furniture critic, and then stopped at the most expensive casket in the room.

  “You had a situation in here a while back, a few lads in trying to scam Gallagher’s son,” he said, letting the words hang in the room. Then I saw him smile for the first time. “I heard you sorted it out fairly nicely.”

  I had no clue where he’d been getting his information from, but whoever had filled him in had done a top-class job.

  “It’s true,” I said, wondering what else he knew.

  He turned to the oak casket.

  “This Irish?”

  “Yes, it is, down from County Louth. Solid oak,” I said.

  “That’s the one then, in the mahogany. Now show me the parlor,” he said, walking out of the room ahead of me.

  While Vincent looked over the front parlor, I sat down on the couch to take down the remaining details I needed.

  “Vincent, did you think about transport on the removal and funeral?”

  Vincent continued to face the painting on the wall he was inspecting, depicting fishermen at sea at night dealing with a violent storm.

  “Five limousines for both days,” he said, moving on to take a closer look at a marble-topped table.

  “And what about clothes, do you want Donal dressed in a suit?”

  “Yeah, call by in the morning and I’ll have it ready for you.” He was back on the move again, only now his focus was on me.

  “I’ve a question for you now,” he said, placing his right foot up on the bier in the center of the room. I looked up from the arrangement sheet to see him no longer smiling.

  “You were in An Capall Dubh last night, weren’t you?”

  I got flashes of being in his study with him earlier, awash with fear.

  “Yeah, I was,” I said.

  “Didn’t see any strangers there, did you, maybe someone who looked out of place?”

  The memories rushed at me: the old guys at the bar; Gerry pulling pints; the crunching thump of Donal hitting the windscreen.

  “No. Just the usual crowd, you know.”

  Vincent sat himself down beside me on the couch, taking up more than his fair share of space, stretching his arm so it reached around my shoulder and crossing his legs in such a way that his foot leaned against my shin. I tried to remain calm, but I was unnerved by how close he was to me.

  “And what time did you leave at?” he said softly.

  “Jesus, you’ve got me thinking now,” I said. “What time would it have been? It must have been about half nine or ten.”

  “And straight home to bed then, yeah?” said Vincent, almost whispering, well aware of how close he was to me.

  “. . . Yeah, I went home then,” I said hesitantly.

  “Good,” said Vincent, and he smiled again before rising to his feet.

  “I hear you’ve got a syndicate going here,” he said. If it had been anyone else, I would have shown my astonishment and asked how they knew, but this was Vincent Cullen. If he’d told me my wife’s maiden name at this stage I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We like to keep an eye on the horses.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a winner you won’t need your pals for. Liberty Girl, running down the Curragh on Saturday week, a rank outsider.”

  The extent of the U-turn was profound and unexpected, considering my earlier performance with him. Still, I was intrigued to know who he’d talked to.

  “Liberty Girl, thank you.”

  Vincent smiled magnanimously. I appreciated the spirit of the gesture; it wasn’t every day I got a tip like that. I walked out ahead of him into the front office only to see Frank entering the office from the corridor.

  “Paddy.” He smiled regretfully. “I heard about the flat tire.”

  I was taken off guard. “Huh?”

  “Three o’clock this morning after the bring-back . . .”

  Vincent appeared behind me, making Frank instantly raise his hand in apology.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were with Mr. Cullen, I beg your pardon,” said Frank, and he continued on towards Corrine’s desk.

  I turned around to face Vincent, whose eyes were darkening with anger.

  “What’s this about three o’clock this morning?” he said evenly.

  “Just part of the job. I didn’t want to bother you with details of other funerals—it’s something I never do. I had to bring a remains back from a nursing home last night, a call that came in well after hours, and when I got back, I had a flat.”

  Every word I’d just told him was true and I knew he could feel it.

  “That Merc yours?” he said.

  “No, it’s Frank Gallagher’s.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “A Renault Clio,” I said, deadpan.

  “Out in the yard, is it?”

  “It is, yeah.”

  The change in Vincent hadn’t been picked up by Corrine or Frank, but his men were watching us like a couple of surveillance cameras. No doubt they were well used to the implications of such a shift in their boss’s behavior. I wasn’t used to the silent staring games, but neither was I nervous because I knew I’d been truthful with him except for the omission of details of the bring-back, which I believed he appreciated.

  “I’ll be on to you,” said Vincent,
before turning and walking out the front door, his men following after him.

  Frank looked up from his desk. “Well?”

  “A hearse and five for removal and funeral, and a mahogany casket.”

  “Excellent,” he said.

  SIXTEEN

  2:15 p.m.

  I’d been through half the coffins in the loft by the time Jack wandered up, and I still hadn’t found a casket for the Cullen job. Ninety-odd percent of the funerals we did were furnished with coffins rather than caskets, the latter being significantly more expensive, but we still stocked them. And I couldn’t find one anywhere. Of all the funerals I’d ever looked after, there was none I could less afford to balls up than Cullen’s.

  “Are you looking for a flat-lid for that houser?” said Jack.

  “No,” I said, “a mahogany casket for Cullen.”

  “You won’t find a mahogany casket up here,” said Jack. “The last one went out in August.”

  “Don’t tell me that, Jack.”

  “We’ve oak caskets, there’s one up in the selection room, but no mahoganies.”

  I pulled out my phone and sat down by the workbench, in need of a very good turn. I punched in the numbers and waited.

  “Hello, Conway’s,” said a deep male voice in a County Louth accent.

  “Liam, it’s Paddy Buckley here from Gallagher’s.”

  “What can I do for you, Paddy?”

  “Sorry to be asking you at this stage of the day, Liam, but I’ve a big favor to ask.”

  “What do you need?”

  “A mahogany casket.”

  “Today?”

  “Today.”

  “Out of the question. I’ll be heading across to the UK early Friday morning with a load, I could drop one into you then.”

  “Nah, it’s today I need it . . .”

  “Sorry, Paddy, not happening.”

  “It’s for Vincent Cullen’s brother,” I said, knowing well the effect it would have.

  Silence of the golden kind.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was for Cullen in the first place, you prick?” said Liam. “I’ll be down this evening with it.”